


Wish You Were Here

by veleda_k



Category: White Collar
Genre: Embedded Images, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veleda_k/pseuds/veleda_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than one, less than 700. And a sonnet. Sara sends Neal postcards from London. </p><p>Spoilers for 4x16. Image heavy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/gifts).



> Written for sholio for the Neal/Sara Thing-a-Thon. Her prompt was Postcards from London.

Neal was glad that the hall was empty when he stepped into June's house. There was no one for him to put on an act for. He didn't have to lift his hunched shoulders, or paste a smile on.

Peter was safe, cleared of all charges, and for the first time in weeks, Neal could breathe again. But he was so damn tired. And while he knew there had been no other way to save Peter, he felt what he had lost (what he had never truly had) all too keenly.

He couldn't put any of this on Peter or Elizabeth. They had enough troubles of their own. Besides, all he needed was a glass of wine (maybe two) and a chance to let go.

His eyes swept over the end table where June's maid left his mail. Lying on top of the catalogs and coupon books, was a brightly colored, decidedly tasteless postcard.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/LondonMontage.jpg.html)

Neal flipped it over, curious. The likely sender was obvious, but the design was _not_ her style.

_Neal,_

_I told you I'd send you a postcard. I searched for a suitably tacky one, because I knew you'd appreciate it. I like the face you make when something offends your aesthetics. I probably could have found worse, but this was as much as my aesthetics could stand. _

_I've been busy, but I'll drop you a line._

_Sara_

Neal smiled, soft and real. Sometimes it was the little things that got you through the day.

****

The next postcard came a couple weeks later.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/londonbridge.jpg.html) _Neal,_

_You're getting a much better view of the Tower Bridge than I ever do. The actual place never quite matches the postcard, does it? Imitation versus reality. You'd know all about that. (For the record, Caffrey, I prefer the real you.)_

_Sara_

Neal set the postcard on the mantle next to the last one, and was glad no one was around to see the look on his face.

****

Neal wasn't waiting for the next postcard to arrive. He wasn't hoping for it. But maybe his heart skipped a beat when he came home to find another one propped up on the side table.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/TheLondonEye.jpg.html) _Neal,_

_First the Tower Bridge, now the London Eye. I think I'm taking you sightseeing from 3500 miles away._

_I've got a (possibly) forged Manet on my hands. I wonder what you'd think of it. Your deviousness and underhandedness would come in handy._

_That's not a compliment, by the way. (Well, maybe a little.)_

_Sara_

He still had the postcard in his hand when Peter came in. As soon as he realized, he tried to shift it out of sight, which, of course, was the exact wrong thing to do. Peter looked down and eyed the postcard suspiciously. “Is that from Alex?” 

Neal rolled his eyes. “I'd say it's none of your business, but what would the point be? I'm allowed to get mail.”

“Of course you are, but it is my business if--”

Neal huffed. “It's not from Alex. Or Mozzie. Or anyone of the criminal persuasion. If you must know, it's from Sara.” 

Peter broke out into a grin. “What does it say?”

“That's definitely none of your business.” But Peter had the look in his eye that he got when he refused to let something go. Neal sighed. “If I let you read it, will you drop the subject?” 

“Deal,” Peter said, and Neal handed him the postcard. When he handed it back, his smile was even wider than before. “I think she misses you.”

“Okay, that is not dropping the subject. Can we please talk about the case?”

Peter agreed, and he didn't mention the postcard or Sara for the rest of the evening. But he kept darting furtive glances towards the other postcards on the mantle, and Neal wondered if the terms of his release would allow him to only meet Peter in the hallway.

****

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/TowerofLondon.jpg.html)_Neal,_

_I've found you a place to stay if you ever come visit me. On second thought, maybe not. We should keep you as far away from the Crown Jewels as possible._

_Sara_

Neal laughed as he stuck the postcard to his refrigerator. Then something in his heart clenched up. She had been joking when she suggested he visit her. Obviously, that was impossible now, and would be for nearly another two years. They weren't waiting for each other. Sara wasn't the type to wait and pine, and Neal... Neal had waited for Kate and look how that turned out. He couldn't do that again. He couldn't wait and wait, only to lose her in the end. He was tired of losing people. 

He'd keep Sara however he could. Even if that meant they'd always remain an ocean apart.

****

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/TheWaterfallOfAmidaBehindTheKisoRoad.jpg.html)_Neal,_

_I went to the British Museum today. It's first time since I moved here that I've gone there for pleasure rather than business. There was a guided tour, but I'm sure you'd give a better one. If I told this was one of my favorites, would you steal it for me? (That was a joke, Caffrey. Don't even think about it.)_

_Sara_

The postcards weren't the only way they communicated. They emailed each other, and while talking on the phone was difficult, between the time difference and their schedules, they managed occasionally. But the postcards were something different. Something fun. Neither of them ever brought them up. It was like an open secret between the two of them.

Anyone who came into Neal's apartment could see the postcards. But Neal was the only person on the continent who understood what they really meant.

****

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/londonglobetheatre.jpg.html)_Neal,_

_Everyone should see a performance at Shakespeare's Globe at least once in their life. Still, I had an even better time when we went to Shakespeare in the Park._

_Also, here:_

_If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,_  
Injurious distance should not stop my way;  
For then despite of space I would be brought,  
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.  
No matter then although my foot did stand  
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;  
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land  
As soon as think the place where he would be.  
But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,  
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,  
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,  
I must attend time's leisure with my moan,  
Receiving nought by elements so slow  
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe. 

_That's Shakespeare's sonnet number 44. But I'm sure you knew that. There, now you can't say I never sent you a sonnet._

_Sara_

Neal remembered that day in Central Park. To say that they saw the play would be only barely accurate. Delacorte Theater was outside Neal's radius, so the two of them had sat on a blanket some ways away, and viewed the show through a shared pair of binoculars. Neal had expected Sara to be disappointed, but she had been genuinely unconcerned. “I knew what I was getting into,” she had said. 

Of course, Sara's idea of the perfect date always had been a little strange.

“For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,” Neal muttered, before looking for the perfect spot for the new postcard,

****

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/LondonMapArtWatercolourPostCard.jpg.html)_Neal,_

_When I saw this, I couldn't think of anyone but you. A map of London, done in watercolors. Is it ridiculous that seeing this reminds me of when we were together? The ordinary became art._

_I sound like an idiot. I don't know if you let anyone else read these, but keep this one to yourself, okay?_

_Sara_

 

“This isn't healthy,” Mozzie declared, looking at the postcards decorating Neal's apartment.

“What, putting up pictures?” Neal asked. “It's not like I'm putting holes in June's walls.”

“Don't play dumb,” Mozzie told him. “It's not healthy to keep holding on like this. You're only going to get your heart broken. Again.”

“Sara's my friend and she's sending me postcards. That's perfectly normal.”

Mozzie appeared unconvinced. He picked up the latest postcard. “What's this one, abstract art?”

Quick as a flash, Neal snatched it out of his hands. “Not that one.” Mozzie eyed him sharply, and he turned away. “Just... not that one, all right, Moz?”

Mozzie shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His eyes were worried. “I keep warning you,” he said softly.

“I know,” Neal replied. “But I never listen.”

****

It had been a long time since the last postcard. Neal knew Sara was safe; emailing had confirmed that. (Still, one night he dreamed that Sterling Bosch's London building was blown up, and Sara died in flames. He could still feel the heat after he woke up.)

He tried not to wonder what it meant. Sara had an important job. No doubt she was busy. Maybe she had a new boyfriend, and had decided that sending her ex postcards was a waste of time. 

Tonight, he had decided to put it out of his mind. He settled down with a glass of wine and drew idly. His creativity had taken a dive since Peter was arrested, since Sara left, since James... Anyway. His forgeries felt flat and stilted, and whenever he tried to do something original, it came out looking like the wrong people: like Kate, like Ellen. This one, he realized, looked too much like Sara. 

There was a knock at his door. There was no meter or rhythm to it, so it was probably Peter. He got up and opened the door. “If this is about the Whittington case, I told--” He stopped. It wasn't Peter. “Sara. I--” he stalled. “I didn't know you were coming.”

She smiled awkwardly. “Neither did I, until I got on the plane. But I couldn't ship this one.” She handed him a postcard of the Crystal Palace. “It's from 1910. I didn't want to risk it in the mail.”

Neal took it. “Why don't you come in?” As soon as the door was closed behind them, he was kissing her. He had a dozen questions. _How long can you stay? Why did you come? What does this mean for us?_ However, none of them seemed very important at the moment.

“The emails, the phone calls, the postcards,” Sara said. “I never told you I missed you.”

“You didn't need to,” Neal told her. “I missed you too. Did you get a hotel?” he asked.

“That's where all my stuff is.”

Neal ran his fingers through her hair. “Stay anyway.”

Sara nodded. “All right.” She tilted her head toward the easel. “Are you working on something?”

“Yeah.” Neal smiled. “Actually, it reminds me of you.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/veleda/media/London%20postcards/CrystalPalace1910.jpg.html)


End file.
